


Robot Drabbles

by Prawnperson



Category: Futurama
Genre: F/M, Human AU, M/M, Written for a mate, after the “warning” they give to Bender and Fanny, set during into the wild green yonder, sweet soft and sappy, the height difference is greatly exaggerated, very ooc but blame it on the fact they’re sleepy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 23:41:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16753696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prawnperson/pseuds/Prawnperson
Summary: “Well, Who was it about then? Can I ask?”





	1. Chapter 1

Joey cracks his eye open whenever he hears the 4th creak, the splintering of a hotel bed frame that indicates he’s been kept from powering down for the better part of an hour now. It’s the 3rd night that gearotica’s been open, and therefore the third time the Donbot’s brought them there so he can see His wife, and the third time he’s watched with mild interest as various different robots move and interlock with each other. He doesn’t really get the appeal of it from the sexual point of view, more just the flexibility some of them posses. The Donbot, from what he can tell, is there so that he can support his wife, and he honestly finds that quite sweet, if a little weird-but hey, whatever he says goes.

Clamps, on the other hand, is always far too excited for Joey’s liking, before, during, and after it’s finished. He can never sit still whenever they’re waiting for it to begin, and he can’t tear his eyes off of it for more that ten seconds once it’s begun. He isn’t sure how exactly to feel about it, because it’s should just be normal, but he acts like a randy teenager about it, leaning in almost comedically close every time one of the femmes takes off her case, and even subtly twitching whenever one of the Male performers does the same.

The fifth creak of the bed is what spurs him to get up-they’re sharing a hotel room, something the Donbot has insisted on after the last one whenever Clamps nearly managed to burn the place down with the little plastic kettle-and check on what’s happening. He walks over to the other single bed where Clamps is sleeping, and flicks on the light.

The smaller robot is squirming on the bare mattress, the sheets kicked off onto the floor, and despite his relentless shivering Joey notices he’s still fast asleep. He arches his back up and mumbles something incoherent, shifting his hips, and Joey kicks one of the legs of the bed. The whole room shudders violently with the force and Clamps bolts awake.

“What the hell was that for??” He slurs. His voice is still a little gravely around the edges, the simulation of sleep just barely out of his processor. He reaches blindly around at the floor beside the bed before he finds his blankets and pulls them up over himself. Joey scrubs his hands down his face and tries to find the most delicate way he can phrase his next sentence without setting off the other’s volatile temper.

“You were having a weird dream.” He mutters. Clamps growls and shoves his face into the pillow. 

“A really weird dream.”

Joey sits down on the edge of the bed and Clamps’ waist hits against his back with a thud as his body is drawn into the divot his weight has created in the mattress. Joey pats his back and listens to the hollow thud of his relatively empty chest cabinet, followed by an embarrassed groan.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Everyone dreams about stuff. What were you dreaming about anyways?”

The second he asks he regrets it, scrunching up his face as much as his limited features will allow as he begins to think about the numerous awful answers Clamps could give. Ones that he would no doubt be happy to explain in explicit, graphic, downright perverted detail.

There’s a beat of silence before the muffled answer of “Dancing...” emanates from somewhere within the pile of blankets. He feels rustling against his back and sighs relieved. It’s nowhere near as bad as he thought it was going to be, so he decides to probe a little further.

“What kind of dancing?” 

Another few seconds of silence follow.

“Ballroom...”

Again, he’s pleasantly surprised, no weird, sordid orgies, no overly graphic wet circuit contests, just raw subconscious sediment that’s collected itself into a stone big enough to be replayed as an unconscious thought.

“Was it with that girl from the show? The one with the pink comb and the small hips?” 

Clamps rolls and sits up so that he’s facing him, still obviously mortified but slightly better than he was before.

“No.”

Joey pauses to think before trying again.

“The one with the lavender boots? She liked you, I think. She always looked at you when she took off that bit at the front of her chassis.”

“Not her either.”

He knows realistically that Joey could choose any one of the girls from the show for him to be dreaming about and he wouldn’t be wrong. They’re just so pretty is all, and he can’t help it, so he doesn’t really understand why he hasn’t dreamed about any of them since he started sharing the hotel room.

“Well, who was it about then? Can I ask?”

Clamps stares at him straight on, horrible fluttery knots tying themselves in rings in his wires, or at least that’s what it feels like. He isn’t sure if he should be honest or not, because he’s supposed to be that guy, isn’t he? The one who’s angry and full of confidence and lusts after pretty girls and-

“You.”

Joey can almost feel his pupils shrink, not quite certain how to respond. He can see Clamps tensing up, his shoulders rising slowly with each passing second, so he presses out a quick “oh.” To fill the silence.

He knows it’s wrong as soon as he says it, because Clamps immediately lies back down and pulls the covers tight over his shoulders, facing the wall.

“Ok. Goodnight.”

He forces it out so the words sound harsh and sharp, and Joey crumples.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that....C’mon, Francis.”

Clamps tenses up when he hears his name, hunching up under the covers. Joey places a hand on his shoulder and he lets the sheets fall down slightly, already relaxing a little under the touch. Joey chuckles lightly and starts to move his hand in small clockwise circles.

“Was it just a nonsense dream, or do you, y’know, like me?”

There’s no reason in beating around the bush as far as he’s concerned. He’s not embarrassed, and he sees no reason why Clamps should be, either. He has a feeling he knows what the answer’s going to be, but he doesn’t want to just take it for granted. He can feel excited, nervous buzzing under his palm and waits patiently, still moving his fingers in soothing circles.

“I think so, yeah.” He whispers. He gulps and wonders if he’s about to get smacked in the backside of the head, or shot, or thrown out of the mafia and drowned in the fountain in the forecourt if the casino for some cleaning lady to discover, but Joey just shrugs. 

“Alright. Ditto.”

With that, he lies down on the bed next to Clamps on top of the covers. He’s far too big and far too heavy to share a single bed with another person, but there’s no chance in hell that he’s getting up now, and Clamps decides to partially curl up against him. Joey puts his arm around him, and it’s a little bit awkward, and there’s a few seconds of uncomfortable shifting and clanking before they both find a comfortable position and settle down. The bright lights of mars Vegas are leaking in through the gap in the curtains, haphazardly closed and bathing small portions of the room in neon cherry red.

The morning light streams in much like the neon, loud and obnoxious and gaudy, somehow able to make itself look tacky to suit the planet its illuminating. Joey wakes up with it in his visor, and he’s sure he would get up and move if he were a human, but Clamps is still curled up small at his side, still and peaceful, a ridiculously contrasting image to his usual, awake self. 

“Francis?”

He only mumbles something, still sound asleep, or as sound asleep as a robot can be, and Joey decides to give him ten more minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy crackship time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame my friend entirely for putting the idea of these two in my head. Also, important to note this is a human au.

Clamps curls up next to Bella, sighing out happily as she moves her arm so that it’s linked loosely around his shoulder. He nuzzles into the crook of her neck and she curls her legs up. The shiny fabric of her skirt feels smooth and comforting, and it makes scratchy noises whenever it shifts against his trouser-legs. He squeezes her waist a little tighter and pulls in impossibly close, makes the tiny wayback seem big and spacious.

She takes her hand from his shoulder to his head, rubbing small, soothing circles into his scalp, absently twirling the greased, short bread coloured waves. He breathes out a half-groan just below her jaw, making her chuckle. His muscles seem to melt under the touch and it’s something she knows she’ll only ever see. Her eyes are trained to see the way he moves despite the darkness the trunk bathes them in. She can make out his face clearly, a broad, content smile painted across his stark features. She presses into his temple and his lips part, mouth going a little slack.

It’s nice to watch him slowly unwind, and if she’s honest with herself, she adores the power she has over him, the way she can turn him to putty in her hands with a simple pat on the hip, a small kiss pressed to his wrist. The tension he’s been holding slowly dissolves, she feels him slump down lower on her shoulder until he’s cooing wistfully into her collar bone. She decides to keep playing with his hair, and the more she twirls it between her fingers, the softer it becomes. She’s determined to wring out all the product one day, see him all rinsed and flushed and fresh, but for now she’s fine with his cut about fifty-fifty, some strands gelled back and others hanging loose and wavy.

“Hmm, Bella, that’s so nice...”

His teeth scrape against her neck a little as he says it. Clamps can smell sweet primrose perfume when he’s pressed in this close to her, or maybe it’s bluebell, he doesn’t know. He leans up into her touch more, craving the irresistible pressure of her gentle, soothing hands. She uses her other hand to gently massage his hip as a reward for the vocalisation of his enjoyment, and he gasps a little bit, her fingers just barely ghosting over a bit of exposed skin.

“Before you ask, just remember we’re in the back of my father’s car while he’s in it.”

He nods and bites his lip, letting her push him down until his back is angled somewhat awkwardly against the side wall of the trunk. He still has his hands around her waist when she goes to straddle him, and he looks up at her with wide, uncertain eyes.

She can feel his grip on her middle tighten every time she so much as breathes too hard, so she relents and shimmies off until she’s sitting between his knees. He sits up a bit, sort of wound up looking, and she rolls her eyes. Seemingly one small shift has undone all her hard work from before. She pulls him by the shoulders and presses a soft kiss to his mouth, and instantly there’s the melting sensation again, like teased fondant. He runs his fingers through her hair, presses his chest against her, trying to get as near as possible. She pulls back and is met with very much the same expression as before, blissed out and sleepy, only maybe a little shakier.

“Belladonna...”

He whispers the nickname with a weird sort of reverence, and she laughs, because he seems so completely and utterly enamoured with someone he’s pet-named using a poison. When she uses her hands on his shoulders to pull him up farther, he stays silent, and lets her position him so that he’s tucked into her side again. His whole frame is limp, simply following her wordless orders, and she can’t help but feel a flicker high in her chest, trust and closeness evident. She slowly runs her fingers through his hair again, and he blacks out in record time, suddenly exhausted and, as bizarre as it is, calm, no anger brewing below the surface, no evident snap approaching.

Whenever the Don opens the boot of the car in roughly and hours time, he’s instantly put off saying or doing anything. Bella presses a finger to her lips before he can say something, and Clamps slumps down further on her shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remeber whenever Ruth and Esther went to split the blintz after the whole incident in the bots and the bees? I wanted to write that

Ruth laces her fingers together with Esther’s, admiring the way the metal of her hair shines under the neon light of the cheap, greasy corner café, almost holographic. Esther is still devouring the blintz, seemingly enjoying it enormously, despite her inability to taste it. 

“What are you lookin’ at?”

Her words snap Ruth out of her daze, but she can’t stop simpering, so completely enamoured with her girlfriend. She sighs and squeezes their joined hands, taking up the second fork from the side of the plate and digging it into the pastry.

“Just the most beautiful woman in all of New New York.”

She whispers, taking a bite of their shared snack herself. Esther turns away, small puffs of steam escaping from the join in her neck. She’s always so easily flustered, and Ruth adores it, drinking in the little noise she makes, flattered and embarrassed. She swallows her food with an audible gulp, and a second whimper follows whenever Ruth gently crosses their ankles together under the table. 

“Ruth...”

She shifts a little and twists her fork deep into the flesh of one of the berries on the side of the plate. It forms a small pool of rich purple juice on the white china, Esther seemingly more interested in it that anything else. Ruth leans forward across the table to press her mouthplate against her cheek, the shock taking the form of a chaste kiss. Esther gasps, but she can’t help the small smile that creeps onto her face.

When Ruth leans back, Esther has put her fork down so that both of their hands are linked. They share their expressions, both smitten with each other, and Esther rubs over Ruth’s fingers with her thumb. A happy sigh leaves her, and she falls further into her plush chair.

The blintz lays long forgotten as the night winds on and the two fem bots get lost in their conversation, in the way the other looks under the glimmering light of the New New York moon. The stars could shatter and they wouldn’t notice, words turning to looks turning to kisses, and Esther’s hair still shines holographic when the sun first rises over the city.


End file.
